


some old tin rings and a stolen wedding gown

by tragicallynerdy



Category: UnDeadwood (Web Series)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode 4 spoilers, Everybody Lives, Husbands, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-30
Updated: 2020-03-30
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:15:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23402092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tragicallynerdy/pseuds/tragicallynerdy
Summary: Mason holds out a hand and tries to gather his scattered thoughts into some semblance of coherency. “Amos,” he steps closer but Amos backs away, mouth a thin line. “Amos, do you remember me? I can’t, I don’t know how we didn’t –“  he takes a deep breath, and tries again. “I lied to you. Amos, my name is Mason Matthews, I’m your goddamnhusband.”-The Reverend Matthew Mason had expected to find a lot of things in Deadwood; a new church, lost souls, and most certainly some form of trouble. But of all the things he’d considered, he never thought he’d find his fuckinghusband.
Relationships: Matthew Mason/Clayton Sharpe
Comments: 12
Kudos: 89





	some old tin rings and a stolen wedding gown

**Author's Note:**

  * For [HawthornShadow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HawthornShadow/gifts).



> Howdy folks! 
> 
> This is a fill for this delightful prompt from HawthornShadow: 
> 
> Accidental marriage AU where Amos Kinsley and Mason Matthews were dumb drunk lads who met at a bar, got married (Amos was never sure where he got his dress or what happened to it after) and then after that evening never saw each other again. Until Clayton Sharpe sees Reverend Matthew Mason in Deadwood.
> 
> Hawthorn, sorry not sorry for taking your prompt and making it sad. 
> 
> (Also, thanks to afearsomecritter for help with the title!)
> 
> Enjoy <3

“Amos Kinsley, let’s take it outside.”

Aly levels his gun at Clayton’s head, and Mason’s heart stutters and skips a beat. He _knows_ that name, sometimes better than he knows his own.

“It’s Amos Matthews, actually,” Clayton snarls, stock still in his chair. Mason misses whatever he says next because he was too busy gaping at Clayton (no, _Amos_ ,) and wondering how the hell he's missed the fact that this man is his goddamn _husband_. But it’s not so surprising; Amos is older now, and no longer fits the half-blurry vision of a skinny boy in a long white dress that he keeps tucked away in his memory. _Fifteen years will change a man,_ he thinks hysterically. _Still handsome as hell, though._

Amos takes a long drink of his whisky, and Mason finds himself speaking. “Gentlemen, surely there must be a more peaceful resolution to whatever this is,” he says, trying to stall, to make sense of what’s happening. Surely it won’t end like this, it _can’t_ end like this, not _now._

Aly looks at him, no hint of the man they’ve come to know present, and Mason’s heart sinks. “Reverend, I appreciate everything you’ve done for me and everything you’ve had to say, but I’m afraid this’ got nothing to do with you.”

 _It has everything to do with me,_ Mason thought as his mind spun with panic and his hand clutched his cross tighter. _Or at least it should if I’m any sort of worthy husband._

Amos draws him back to the room by invoking his name, and Mason can barely keep himself from lunging across the table at Aly. Miriam is crying and pleading, but Mason can already tell from the blank look on Aly’s face that it will do no good, and Amos is already heading for the door.

“Goodnight, Miss Miriam.” Aly tips his hat and turns to leave, and Mason can’t sit still any longer. He’s been looking for Amos for _fifteen_ goddamn years, and there is no way in hell that he’ll let his fucking _husband_ get killed in the streets before his very eyes. He stands, grabs the bottle of whisky, and is across the room and breaking it on Aly’s skull before any of the others can respond. 

“What the _fuck_ ,” Amos says, hand going to his gun. Mason can hear Miriam hollering and Dan shouting something behind him, but Aly has dropped to the floor and there’s no _time._ He grabs Amos' hand and drags him out the door before he can make out what they’re saying, praying that nobody will follow them.

They’re down the street and around the corner before Amos wrenches his arm from Mason’s hand, skidding to a stop in the dingy alley. “What the _fuck,_ Reverend, that wasn’t your goddamn fight!”

Mason holds out a hand and tries to gather his scattered thoughts into some semblance of coherency. “Amos,” he steps closer but Amos backs away, mouth a thin line. “Amos, do you remember me? I can’t, I don’t know how we didn’t –“ he takes a deep breath, and tries again. “I lied to you. Amos, my name is Mason Matthews, I’m your goddamn _husband_.”

He’s expecting surprise, maybe relief, maybe joy. He’s expecting _something_ , some response to this revelation that has rocked his world to its foundations in the last five minutes, but it doesn’t come. Amos just glares at him and tenses up even further.

“It’s _Clayton_ ,” he says. “I ain’t been Amos in a long fucking time. And I know your name, Mason Matthews.” His mouth turns down stubbornly. “I don’t give a fuck who you are, being my husband don’t give you the right to interfere in my business.”

Mason gapes at him, then snarls. “Aly would’ve fucking _killed_ you, I think that gives me plenty of right! And what the fuck do you _mean_ you know who I am?” Someone runs by the alley and they both duck further into the shadows. Mason lowers his voice. “Why didn’t you _say_ anything?”

“I just found out, okay?” Clayton hisses back, stepping closer. “I just found your goddamn wanted poster, figured it out then. Who the _fuck_ renames themselves with just their names switched around, you goddamn _idiot_ -”

Footsteps run by the alley again, slowing down at the mouth and turning to peer into the darkness. They both freeze then reach for their pistols as two figures are run towards them, stopping their draw when they hear the rustling of skirts.

“Thank _God_ we found you,” Miriam gasps, rushing over to hug Clayton, oblivious to the tension in the air. Clayton freezes as she throws her arms around him, then hesitantly returns the embrace, still glaring daggers at Mason. When Miriam steps back Mason can see fresh tear tracks down her cheeks. “Bless your soul, Reverend, your quick thinking has saved a good man.”

Arabella pipes up quietly before he can respond. “This is touching and all, but we need to get you two off the streets. He’ll be looking for you soon.”

“We could go to the Church?” Mason asks, not knowing any other options to offer.

“Too obvious, Reverend,” Miriam said, shaking her head. “I think the Bella Union would be best, if they’re willing to put you up.”

* * *

They go to the Bella Union, traversing through alleys and quiet streets until they can cross the thoroughfare without notice. Kaity welcomes them in, and after speaking with Joanie and exchanging a not inconsiderable amount of gold they’re all gathered in a small back room with a single bed.

The silence they find themselves in is tense. Mason doesn’t know how to act around Clayton now; he can’t stop watching him, can’t stop trying to track the differences between the boy he knew then and the man he knows now. Clayton, on the other hand, hasn’t looked at him since they left the streets. He’s standing close to the door, bristling with anger or fear like a cornered alley cat, and all Mason wants to do is gather him into his arms and hold him close.

“I feel like we missed something between you two,” Miriam notes, glancing back and forth between them. She’s composed again, and Mason doubts they’ll make it out of here with the secret of their marriage intact. Neither of them speak and she sighs, turning her attention to Clayton. “Should we be calling you Amos Kinsley now?”

“Matthews,” Mason absent-mindedly corrects her. He flushes as all three of them turn to look at him. “That’s what you said, right?” he finishes weakly.

“Good ear, Reverend,” Miriam says with one raised eyebrow before turning her attention back to Clayton. “Amos Matthews, then.”

Clayton scowls and crosses his arms. “Ain’t been Amos in a long time, it’s Clayton now.”

“Clayton, then.” Miriam smiles reassuringly. “What was all that about back there? And what did you mean, that the law was wrong?”

Clayton hesitates, then tells them the tale in a halting voice. Of how he’d been framed for murder fifteen hears ago, and had run rather than face the noose. Of how he’d changed his name, and the bounty that kept following him. Mason watches the entire time, finally receiving the story he’s been waiting fifteen years to hear.

“Guess Aly found out about it,” Clayton says finally, staring up at the ceiling before shaking his head with a laugh. “Justice. What a load of bullshit.”

“You’d think they’d have your name right if they put a bounty out,” Arabella muses. “Seems like an oversight. Maybe we could use that to clear your name.”

Clayton shakes his head. “It weren’t exactly a legal change. Got married the week before.”

“Oh,” Arabella looks even more confused now. “Is it… is it customary in your state for the men to take on their wives' names?”

Both Clayton and Mason laugh at that, stopping short as soon as they hear the other. Clayton grins at her and shakes his head again. “It ain’t, no.”

Miriam looks back and forth between them. “I don’t understand. And will one you _please_ tell me what in the hell is going on between you?”

Clayton shuts down, and Mason sighs, rubbing the pinch between his eyebrows. _Lord, let this go well_. “It’s because he’s got a husband, Miriam.”

“And you know this how?” Miriam asks, eyebrows raised higher than ever. Clayton glares at him, tenser than ever.

“Don’t you fucking _dare,_ preacher -" he hisses out before Mason interrupts.

“Think they deserve to know, Clay.” He tugs the chain out from under his shirt and holds up the battered tin ring he still has after all this time. “I know because it’s me. I’m his husband, and he’s mine. He took on my name.”

There’s silence for a long few seconds as all three of them gape at him.

“You still have it?” Clayton whispers. Miriam and Arabella turn their astonished faces to him, and he shuts down again, hunching in on himself and ducking his head under his hat.

“Well that’s… that’s certainly something,” Miriam finally says. Mason prepares himself for the usual bullshit and is pleasantly surprised with what comes next. “Husbands, what a lovely thing.” She sounds delighted, and a brilliant smile flashes across her face. “I must say, the two of you did an excellent job of pretending to be strangers.”

“Weren’t pretending,” Clayton says tiredly. “I ain’t seen him in fifteen years, just figured it out an hour ago.”

Miriam frowns. “I see.” She looks confused again, and Mason can understand the feeling.

The tension builds again, as Mason and Clayton avoid eye contact and Miriam watches both of them closely, Arabella frowning at her side. Finally Arabella breaks the silence.

“Well, husbands aside, we should figure out a plan to deal with Mister Fogg.” Arabella looks at Miriam. “I don’t know about you, but I’m not about to let an innocent man hang.”

Miriam smiles and pats her hand. “Couldn’t have said it better myself.”

* * *

They work out a rough plan. Clayton and Mason will stay at the Bella Union for the night, and the next day Miriam and Arabella will find out what they can, then try and convince Aly that Clayton has fled town. Before long the two women are heading out the door, promising to return the next day with news. Arabella pauses at the door and turns to Clayton.

“Can I have a quick word, Mister Sharpe?” Clayton nods and glances at Mason, who stands and heads out after Miriam.

“I’ll give you two the room, Clayton should be seen as little as possible.”

Arabella nods and shuts the door as he leaves, and Mason follows Miriam out into the saloon. She perches on a stool as he leans against the bar beside her, trying to stay composed.

“You okay, honey?” Miriam asks softly, laying a hand on his. “You look a bit shook.”

“Just wasn’t expecting all this,” he says with a shaky smile. “I’ll be alright though; the Lord will see me through.”

She smiles back and squeezes his hand. “I certainly hope so.”

They sit quietly and wait, and it doesn’t take long. Arabella joins them with a terse smile to Mason, and then they’re both off, and he’s walking back down the hall to the husband that’s more a stranger than the gunslinger he knew this morning. _What on earth do you say to a husband you haven’t seen in fifteen years? Lord, give me guidance._

He steps into the room quietly to find Clayton divested of his coat and hat, sitting on the bed and working on his boots. Clayton looks up briefly, then returns to his task. Mason hovers, then finally goes to sit on the chair across from him.

“What did Arabella want?” he ventures to ask, not sure he’ll get a response.

Clayton snorts and shakes his head. “Wanted to ask if I needed help, if I was safe with you. Told her I was fine.”

Mason laughs, then grits his teeth to make himself stop when it threatens to turn to hysteria. He watches as Clayton returns to his task, hoping beyond hope that Clayton will keep talking, even though he knows it’s unlikely to happen.

“We should talk,” he finally says, grimacing as Clayton’s shoulders tense.

“What’s there to say?” Clayton tosses one boot into the corner then starts on the other one. “This don’t change anything.”

The lump returns to his throat. “It could. Clayton, it could change everything.” Clayton shakes his head again, but Mason presses on. “I’ve been trying to find you for _fifteen years_ , Clayton. Everywhere I go, I keep hoping I’ll run into you.” Clayton finally looks at him, and Mason gives him a shaky smile. “You just… you just never came back. You went home, said you would come back, but you never did. I waited for you, as long as I could.”

Clayton scans his face, then finally lets out a sigh. “I’m sorry. I tried, I did, but… well, you heard the story.” He shook his head and threw the second boot after the first. “I came back, maybe a month or two later, but you were gone.”

“Someone figured out I was a deserter, I had to leave.” Mason laughs and scrubs at his face. “What a fucking mess.”

“I’ll say.” Clayton snorts and stands up to continue undressing. “C’mon, Mason, let’s go to bed. We can figure the rest out in the morning.”

Mason watches him until it becomes too much, until he can’t bear to watch and map out the differences in the man before him any longer, then nods and starts working on his own clothing. He pauses once he’s down to his shirtsleeves and looks at Clayton, who's in trousers and an undershirt, shoving his gun under the pillow closest to the door. “Clay… whatever this is, whatever it could be, I want to try. I want us to have a chance.”

Clayton sighs again and tosses his clothing in the corner after his boots. “You don’t even know me, Mason. Hell, you barely even knew me when we tied the knot, we’d only met some three weeks before.” He tries to smile but it falls flat. “It was a drunken decision; don’t think you’d have made the same choice sober. It doesn’t have to mean anything.”

Mason frowns and tries to put as much conviction as he can into his words. “I’ve never regretted it, only that we didn’t have more time.” He crosses the room and reaches out to touch Clayton, but lets his hand fall instead. He forces out the question that’s burning his tongue. “Will you give us a chance, though?”

“I…” Clayton hesitates, then looks away. He ducks his head and runs a hand through his hair, a shaky exhale escaping into the room. “I don’t know. It’s been a long time, Mason. It’s hardly a marriage at all.”

Mason turns away and covers his face with his hands, trying to contain the sorrow that he didn’t think would be this strong. “Okay. Okay. Fine.” He breathes for a minute, then finishes with his clothing. Clayton’s fallen silent, and he doesn’t want to see whatever truth or lie is written on his face, so he keeps facing away.

He’s laying his coat on the floor when Clayton speaks next. “Come sleep on the bed, Mason. There’s room enough for both of us.”

He looks up at Clayton, but the other man still won’t make eye contact, even though he’s curling up on the edge of the bed with space left behind him in a clear invitation. Mason huffs but hangs up his coat anyway, crawling into the bed nearest the wall and turning to face it. Clayton gets up, and there’s a scraping of chair legs before he puts out the lantern and climbs back into bed, drawing the blanket up over them both.

They lay in silence, facing away from each other, miles of distance in the scant few inches between them. It’s almost more than he can bear, and finally Mason breaks.

“Look,” he whispers into the dark, facing the wall. “I know this ain’t the marriage we said it would be. But when I promised to love and cherish you, to keep you happy and safe, I meant it. Even if it’s fifteen goddamn years later.” There’s a lump building in his throat, and he chokes it out again. “I meant it.”

Nothing happens for a long minute, and if he can feel tears start to trickle down his face. Then the bed shifts behind him, and Clayton rolls over, resting his head in the span between Mason’s shoulder blades, fists tangled in his shirt. “I meant it too.”

Mason tries to hold himself still but can’t. He rolls over and gathers Clayton into his arms, pressing his wet face into his hair and holding on tighter than he ought to. Clayton stiffens, then slowly relaxes, tucking his head under Mason’s chin and winding an arm around his waist in turn.

“I’m scared,” Clayton whispers, “that I’ll have to run again, and we’ll never get a chance. How can I say yes if I might have to leave you behind?”

Mason squeezes him even tighter. “You think I wouldn’t come with you?” Clayton doesn’t answer, and that’s answer enough. “I don’t intend to let you go again, not unless you’re damn sure you don’t want me with you.” He exhales slowly and tries to loosen the death grip he has on his husband into something less liable to crush the wind from him. “I don’t have anything holding me here, Clay. You say go and we’ll go.”

“And what if we go, and you realize you made a mistake all along? I ain’t a good man.” The question is so quiet he can barely hear it, and Mason wants to shoot whoever made his husband so sure of his own terrible nature. **“** Don’t think I could bear being alone again.”

“Oh, sweetheart, I would never.”

Clayton shakes his head against Mason’s chest. “You don’t know that. You hardly know me.”

He thinks for a moment, then nods slowly against Clayton’s head. “You’re right. I don’t know that. But neither do you. You could just as easily decide that you want nothing to do with me. But I know that if we’re going to give this thing a shot, we’re going to have to trust that we’ll both give it our best and hope that we land somewhere good.” Clayton shudders out a breath then relaxes, and Mason realizes that he’s been holding his breath, waiting for an answer. He kisses Clayton’s head, just a whisper of lips against his hair. “Think that’s the best we can do.”

Clayton pulls back to peer up at his face in the darkness. Mason can just make out the shape of his face, and he wishes he could see the expression sitting there, that he could read him and know what he was thinking. Clayton nods slowly, then leans up to press his lips softly against Mason’s. “Okay.”

He could barely breathe. “You mean it?”

Clayton nods again, and now Mason can see the hint of a smile on his face. “I do.” The words mimic the ones spoken so long ago, and Mason finds himself grinning just as broadly as he had back then. He nudges forward and kisses Clayton again, pouring all the hope and delight and promise he can into the kiss.

They’re both breathless when they part, and Mason nudges his nose against Clayton’s, whispering into the dark as he dreams of the future. “Darlin', nothing would make me happier than spendin' my life getting to know you.”

Clayton smiles and tucks himself back under Mason’s chin, curling in like he’s finally found a home. “Lucky us, then, that all we have is time.”

Mason hums and kisses his hair again as joy blooms in his chest, full as a cherry tree in spring. “Lucky us, indeed.”

* * *

_They get married on a Thursday. There’s nothing special about it, other than the fact that they find two tin rings someone has tossed in the gutter, and both have enough whisky in them to make the idea a reality. Amos laughs and disappears with a whispered “wait here", and comes back a short time later wearing a white dress that he must’ve stolen off a line with a smug grin on his face. And Lord, Mason has never seen someone more beautiful, with his hair shining in the moonlight, a pale bunch of lace gathered at his wrists. He kisses him, slow and sweet, then grabs him by the hand and leads him to the Church._

_They stumble on the steps as they scramble up them, Amos cursing the long train of his dress, Mason laughing as his clumsiness. They stand in front of the doors in the moonlight, giggling and trying to stay quiet so Father Joseph won’t hear them. They whisper hushed vows, said before God and God alone, and mean every word._

_“With this ring, I thee wed.”_

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading, hope you enjoyed!! As always, comments and kudos are highly appreciated. Stay safe out there y’all, wishing you all well in quarantine <3

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [something borrowed, something blue](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23447182) by [afearsomecritter (jsaer)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jsaer/pseuds/afearsomecritter)




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